


my home becomes my grave (liberation)

by eclipse447



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angry Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Angry TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Character Death, Clay | Dream Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), DreamSMP - Freeform, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Insanity, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Pandoras Vault, Prison, Regret, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29997213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eclipse447/pseuds/eclipse447
Summary: "He doesn't have enough energy to move his head, so his eyes pan around the cell that was becoming his grave. This was the room he would rot it, and no one would know. Actually, no one would care. And you know what, they shouldn't."or; Dream is imprisoned for his crimes but it's not as easy as he thought it would be.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sam | Awesamdude, Clay | Dream & Sapnap & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 330





	my home becomes my grave (liberation)

This was what he wanted, right? He wanted the SMP to all be a big family, and if that meant everyone came together to throw him in prison, so be it. Dream sat on the bed in his cell, legs and arms crossed, a small smile appearing on his lips. Yeah, he did it. He would happily rot in prison for as long as it takes so that they can all get along. Plus, how hard could prison be? Free food and a cosy room to sleep in would be a breeze. Especially for a man without a permanent home, this was a dream. He was out of their way now, no longer a burden to those he once considered friends. With him in here, they could happy; they were free. Sure, he was a bit lonely, but it was worth it for them to be satisfied. He wouldn't be out there to see his creation, but it was okay. All the best creators don't get to see their designs in action, right? Dream swears that he read that somewhere, or maybe someone told him. Anyway, he was content with that. They could enjoy the world he created without the tyrant he was interrupting it. He played the role he needed to fix the world, and as Dream sits in the dark cell, he smiles. Maybe being the monster wasn't so bad.

The blonde stands with his smile still plastered on his face. He just needs to stay positive, and this will be easy. He walks over to look at his few belongings, a lectern, clock on the wall, cauldron and chest. He smiles at the clock; the soft ticking that so many find annoying brings him comfort. The quiet ticking fills the painful silence that swallowed the cell, aside from the occasional pops from the lava outside. He watches the hand tick evenly, smiling when it hit the perfect centre. This could be a fun game to play in the future. It could be his happy hour. Dream turns to the lectern, frowning at the lack of books upon it. He ignores the cauldron since it’s literally just water and turns his full attention to the chest. It opens with a squeak, surprisingly heavy. Inside the chest are piles and piles of books. Dream’s smile grows; he loves writing. The blonde man props his knee up to hold the lid up while keeping his hands free. He pulls out the book on the top of the pile, examining the leather cover carefully. He awkwardly bends down and places it on the cold obsidian floor with care, as though it was made of glass. The chest squeaks louder as he opens it further, shuffling the books around the reach the utensil at the bottom. His hand wraps around the cylindrical object, and he pulls the pen from the chest. He closes the lid gently and with immense care, subconsciously fearing it may break. He slides down the back wall of his cell, opening the book to the first page. Maybe he could keep a journal of his time in here?

* * *

Tommy visited him. He was honestly shocked when the lava parted, and his first visitor was the boy he manipulated and tore apart. At first, Dream felt guilty for his actions, but all he had to do was remind himself of the end goal, the goal he had since achieved. His mind flashed with memories of exile and everything he’d ever done to Tommy as the blonde crossed the bridge towards the cell. He cringed slightly, a feeling similar to the guilt he used to feel settling in his chest. He stayed sitting, huddled in the corner with his knees to his chest. His favourite spot. Tommy marched over, and Dream envied the energy he carried. The blonde draws his knees in further, feeling sinking anxiety fill his stomach, fitting in alongside the guilt. He detached his increasingly sweaty hands from one another to readjust his mask, nervously checking to ensure his face was concealed from the younger. 

Tommy avoids eye contact as he waits for the lava to fall once more, and once the netherite barrier disappears, he snaps his attention to the sad pile of Dream curled in the corner.

The child yelled at him, and Dream didn't do anything about it. He could tell that behind Tommy's brave face, he was scared. Scared of Dream and what he'd become. They'd been friends once, but Dream had to ruin it. For the good of the SMP. In his eyes, friends were temporary; family was forever. Still, he couldn't help but feel bad for the pain he caused the younger blonde. Tommy went through what little he owned, taking his clock, spouting insults aimed at the older before stopping to look at the chest full of seemingly blank books. He instructs Dream to write him some books before turning and leaving, but not before threatening the blonde once more. Dream scoffs as the idea of doing something for the child. Why would he write those books for him? As he watches the lava fall behind Tommy, he stands still.

Once he was sure Sam and Tommy were gone, he moves to the chest that contained Tommy's books, picked them up and walked to the lava. He held the books in his hand for a moment before shaking his head.  _ Did I seriously just consider doing that?  _ The blonde scoffs and tosses the first few into the lava with ease. However, Dream finds himself hesitating on the last one. For some reason, the book won't leave his hand. Dream sighs and tosses the book on the floor, just out of the lava. He walks back over to the chest and pulls out another book.  _ Dream's Journal.  _ He writes another entry.

* * *

It's too much; the voices are too loud. He needs to drown them out. He's been in here too long. The voices have grown too strong. Dream tosses his journal carelessly across the floor while he claws at his ears, whimpering like a pathetic dog. Tears stream from his eyes as he desperately tries to shut them up. His pen rolls off his lap, causing him to flinch. He watches it for a moment, mesmerised as it rolls away before hitting the wall and coming to a halt. Once his distraction ends, the voices take over once more.

On the outside of prison, there were distractions, things to entertain the demons in his mind. But here, there was nothing. He used his journal and the clock initially, but the more time passed, the less effective his distractions became. Dream whines, nails digging into the sides of his head. The whine soon evolves into a violent scream, shredding his vocal cords. This scream becomes many, prolonged and painful. The screams can be heard all through the prison, but Dream knows Sam won't come to see him. Sam doesn't care about him. He won't come to see what's wrong. He pauses to catch his breath, eyes scrunching shut as he lets out another terrible scream. Liquid flows from his mouth, a mix of saliva and blood pools on the obsidian floor. Anger builds in his body, and he tries to release the overflowing tension. The blonde punches the ground, basking in the satisfying feeling that follows, and repeats. Abusing the ground as he did those he loved.

The blonde's bloody and broken nails scrape across his ears, unknowingly cutting the already fraying straps to his smiling mask. The porcelain smile falls to the ground, breaking into pieces. His safety net, gone. The tall man's eyes open in shock, and his jaw drops, ignoring the trickle of  _ something  _ from his mouth and the throbbing in his hands. He falls to the floor, knees smacking painfully against the hard rock floor. Dream lets out a flow of raspy 'no's as he assesses the damage to his precious mask. He desperately tries to pick up the pieces, to fix was he broke. Ironic, really, since he was trying to fix an SMP that was broken because of him. The once white pieces turn red in his hands, slipping through his slippery fingers and leaving new cuts behind. He can't lose another thing from outside; he's already losing so much. He's tried to document his memories in his journal, but he no longer remembers writing them. The memories of the outside were fading fast, and Dream was panicking. 

The voices, the memories and now the mask, it was too much. He'd been isolated for months now, 82 days exactly. Since the only thing to do here was watch the clock tick and write in the haunting diaries. An idea strikes him, and he pathetically wipes his red hands on his clothes. He picks up the less broken side of the mask, looking over the missing part on the right side. Dream undoes the string from the broken right half with trouble from his swollen hands and ties it back on the wearable piece with some struggle. The blonde places it back over his face, right eye fully uncovered and smiles. The smile doesn't quite reach his red and puffy eyes, making it look sinister. Dream's hand is brought up to his face, and he strokes it slightly, grateful for the feeling of being hidden behind the mask. He doesn't think about the red stripe that now stained the white porcelain, but it probably matches the red that was already there. The blonde laughs, raspy and horrible due to the torn vocal cords, and the laugh devolves back into screaming. Pathetic, wheezy and painful screaming, but screaming nonetheless. He can't even remember why he's yelling anymore, and slowly his voice gives out. He hits the ground.

* * *

The lava is parting. Dream sits quietly at the back of his cell, sprawled out on the floor, sitting in agony of his own actions. His throat feels it's on fire, and he's continuously been coughing up blood since he broke his mask. Thinking of the mask, he brings his hand up, tracing the eye of the mask, wincing as his hands throb with pain. Despite being able to see half of his face now, the blonde feels safe still. He runs damaged fingers over the cracks on the side, breathing in the cuts that follow the action. Dream returns his hands to his lap to fiddle. The blonde can no longer speak, any sound that leaves his mouth, causing excruciating pain. Despite the pain in his hands, Dream continues to pick at his deformed and broken fingernails. A nervous habit he's always had. 

He closes the journal that he had sat in his lap, ignoring the drops of blood that had now stained the pages. He lifts it slowly and places it next to him, using an insane amount of effort for such a simple action. He leaves the pen in his lap, not finding it in himself to move that too. If he ignores the pain, it will go away. He watches the lava slowly dissipate. Dream assumes it's Tommy, and he wishes he could yell out to Sam to tell him to fuck off. He'd instead drink lava than speak to that child again. But of course, he has no voice to shout; therefore, he will have to deal with Tommy now. Yet as the lava parts, he sees a shorter man wearing white. Not Tommy. If he remembers correctly, Tommy had blonde hair and was taller, whereas this man was shorter and had brunette hair. Dream squints his eyes, trying to see the other better. 

For a minute, Dream can't remember who it was; his memory became hazier each day. What used to be clear images in his head have become blurry and quiet, no longer containing any meaning to him. The man begins to walk across the bridge to him, and Dream's eyes widen with realisation. Sapnap came to see him. Sapnap was going to see him like this, weak and pathetic. The man enters the cell. As he waits for the lava to fall and the barrier to vanish, he makes sure to stare directly at the now shaking Dream. When it does, he storms over, grabbing the blonde's face and forcing him to make eye contact.

Sapnap immediately makes sure Dream knows why he's there. Dream really regrets losing his voice now, since Sapnap spouts insult after insult, promise after promise, and he can only listen. Listen to his ex-best friend promise him that he would kill him if Dream ever got out. Listen to his promise to make it slow and painful. Sapnap made sure to let him know how pathetic he looks, blood all over and mask cracked in half. He doesn't even care to ask what happens. Sapnap, the man who he believes was his best friend, doesn't care anymore. And rightfully so. Dream makes a mental note to add that to his journal. He also needed to add that he didn't deserve to be cared about to avoid future confusion. 

After he ran out of energy, Sapnap left without sparing the blonde a glance. Sapnap left, and Dream screamed.

* * *

Something is wrong, more so than usual. Dream sits in front of his food station as another meal drops from the dispenser. Although Dream never has an appetite, he swears he was getting less and less food. He used to get three raw potatoes three times a day; however, he only counted two. Although he hated potatoes, he didn't feel right knowing his food rations were lessened without his knowledge. Sam would've at least come in tell him, right? The blonde wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or not as he held the flavourless food in his broken hands. Did Dream always get these rations? Maybe he was overreacting? He tended to overreact a lot more in prison, the isolation finally causing him to lose it more with each passing day. Sure, he already avoided eating what was given; however, this was slightly concerning. He didn't know if he could trust his memory since it had been particularly foggy as of late. It could be the lack of food he'd been eating, but he wasn't going to stop playing his new game in order to remember all the terrible things he'd done. 

See, Dream discovered a game recently, but he hadn't thought of a name for it yet. He'd made sure to write the rules down in his journal to make sure he didn't forget. The aim was to see how long he could go without eating before he couldn't take the pain anymore. Once it became too much, he allowed himself to eat a potato or two, usually throwing the rest in the lava. He didn't think he deserved the rest after he failed his game. Sometimes, if he beat his record, he'd have an extra as a reward. So far, he'd written down that his record was four and a half days. Maybe this was Sam trying to help him? He probably noticed that Dream hadn't been eating all the potatoes he provided, so he cut them back to stop wasting food. This is the most logical reasoning he could think of, and he silently thanks Sam for his kind consideration since his voice no longer worked. 

A small smile comes to Dreams lips at the thought of Sam looking after him like this, and he moves away from the food dispenser. He feels more content now, and when he looks at the clock, he sees it's almost happy hour. The blonde feels giddy at the thought and springs over to the clock. This has been a good day, he thinks. He figured out that Sam is helping him, and he didn't sleep through happy hour today. He sits down cross-legged in front of the clock, staring at it and fidgeting with anticipation. He feels more and more excited the closer the hand was to be vertical, and as it ticks over, he sighs in relief. He smiles, feeling genuinely happy, and allows himself to relax back to a neutral feeling once the moment passes. Happy time is the best time.

* * *

Dream sits patiently, staring at the dispenser and driving himself insane. It had been a while since he first notices the lack of food, maybe a month, and since then, it had become worse. He didn't know if he could not keep track of time or something that should be genuinely worrying, but there had been no food for a while. The place below the dispenser lay bare as it had been for days. Dreams stomach started to grumble uncomfortably, but not painful yet. Maybe this was Sam playing Dream's game with him? To be honest, he didn't know if he liked the game anymore. Dream wanted the self-control he had to develop, but now, there was no option but to starve. At least he had a name for the game now,  _ Zenosyne.  _ His vocabulary had always been quite unique from the days of his childhood; he'd spend writing countless stories. He'd picked up many fancy words from his mother, who had a fascination with the English language and storytelling. Dream supposes that's where he gets it. He misses her, but she wouldn't be proud of him, not after everything he's done.

Dream stands and walks to the spot in which is food would drop from, patting the floor and searching for some mystical invisible food. He's getting desperate and starving. Anything was possible, including the fact that Sam could've been pranking him. Maybe Sapnap put him up to it. Sapnap hates him, so he assumes the younger would do something like this in order to teach his old friend a lesson. The blonde sighs, standing back up and going over to his chest. He lifts the heavy lid, noticing it takes a bit more effort today than usual and removes his journal. He sits in front of the clock and begins writing. Under the page labelled "Sam", he adds a dot point.  _ -Listening (?)  _ He really hopes that Sam is watching and will feed him soon. Maybe he did something wrong, and this was his punishment? If that's the case, Dream can't remember doing anything he wasn't supposed to. The blonde stuck to a routine daily and never did anything out of order. Unless, of course, something weird happened, like this. He stands quickly, looking at nothing in particular. 

“Sam,” his voice cracks painfully and comes out as a whisper. “Sam please, I don’t wanna play anymore.” 

Dream walks over to the dispenser and begins banging on it, hoping for something, anything to come out. He looks up into the hole but it was closed tight, and with his weak hands, nothing could be done. His stomach grumbles again, more aggressive and demanding each time.

“Sam, I broke my record, can I eat now please?” But at this point, he didn’t know if Sam was even listening.

* * *

He has one last idea, one sliver of hope that he won't rot in this damn cell. Dream hadn’t even for over a full week. The blonde's stomach cramps painfully at the slightest movement and doesn't take kindly to Dream attempting to move to the other side of his small cell. He crawls to the wall incredibly slowly and in agonising pain. The man puts all of his weight on the rotting lectern and reaches above it. Dream's knees fail him, barely managing to swipe his precious clock off the wall as he collapses. The now weak man hits the ground hard, twisting to land on his back to protect the clock from the fall. The wind is knocked out of him, making it harder than it already was to breath. His breathing becomes heavier, panting from the combination of the fall and such little movement. The frail man crawls to the giant wall of lava and draws his arm back. 

Dream pathetically tosses the clock in the direction of the magma wall. He is less than a metre away from it, yet his throw isn't strong enough. The clock falls to the floor, glass shattering and spraying onto the man on the floor. He looks back to watch it roll briefly and instantly disintegrates in the molten heat. His last-ditch attempt to get help would work. A ghost of a smile appears on Dreams lips, hopeful for the first time in a while. Sam always came to fix his clock, no matter how many times he said it was his last. He could get help; he wasn't going to die like this. Now all he needs to do is wait.

Apparently, this was the last time. Sam never came. The brief moment of hope was crushed after only a few hours. Dream managed to drag himself to the back of the cell once again after becoming overwhelmed by the lava's heat. The smile didn't leave his lips for a while as his eyes stayed glued to the lava, waiting for that first sign it was falling. But it never did. And over the span of a few hours, the smile slowly fell from his face and was replaced with a blank stare. For a usually restless man, he sat perfectly still until the last light of hope inside dissipated. With the clock gone and showing no sign of returning, Dream couldn't tell how long he'd spent sitting and staring at the lava. The familiar ticking sound was gone, eery silence replacing it. His legs had long since grown numb, but he couldn't care. Keeping his eyes trained ahead of him, he reaches a frail and shaking hand beside him, feeling around. Once it finds the book sitting next to him, his arm is on fire. With the weakness in his arm, he struggles to turn the pages, becoming almost frantic at his lack of mobility. Picking up his pen put an intense strain on his shoulder, causing a raw and raspy whimper from his throat; since his voice had permanently left at this point. 

He scribbles his last few thoughts down, struggling to form the correct letters. After a while of somewhat succeeding attempts to write down his goodbye, he drops the pen, watching with dead eyes as it rolled out of reach. He had no more tears to cry as his stomach rumbling painfully. He groans, clutching it while it eats itself from the inside out. Dream embraces the pain, only wishing death would come quicker. He doesn't have enough energy to move his head, so his eyes pan around the cell that was becoming his grave. This was the room he would rot it, and no one would know. Actually, no one would care. And you know what, they shouldn't. It took 6 months in this hellhole to figure it out, but Dream messed up. Every bad thing that happened in this server was his fault, his failed attempt at unity. He deserves the slow and painful demise he is enduring, and he deserves every second of it. Maybe with him truly gone, they can finally have peace.

His eyes close without much fight, his mind feeling fuzzy and dizzy. Dream's head spins, causing him to zone out and lose where he is. He feels himself sway, despite being propped up against a wall. He has no energy to fight it. He gives in to gravity, collapsing on his side, agony shooting through his body. He closes his eyes tighter. This is it. The all-powerful Dream, God of the SMP. The man who controlled and manipulated everyone around him because of some sick and twisted morals. This man was dying to hunger. Onism taking over his whole body, leaving him in despair. His final thought as he feels the light fade,  _ pathetic _ . 

  
  
  


_ Dream starved to death _ .

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment and kudos!!
> 
> follow me on twitter cause I'm cool @twsapnp
> 
> this took me so long to write so i hoped you enjoyed
> 
> edit: okay so since you seem to want a part 2 I'll have it out in the next few weeks. It's already half-written, i just have to finalise the last section of plot and edit 
> 
> :)


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